Technically begun in November with 50th anniversary shows in London and New York – preceded and followed by club gigs in Paris and L.A.'s Echoplex – the relatively brief run from the iconic rockers has three more nearby dates: May 15 and 18 at Honda Center in Anaheim, the group's first appearances there since 1999, plus a return to Staples on May 20. (Wished-for Coachella headliners that fell through, they will instead make festival appearances this summer in the U.K. at Glastonbury and, for the first time since a choppy 1969 comeback that became a Brian Jones memorial, in Hyde Park.)

At U.S. stops, prices cap at $600 and work down to a theoretical $150 for the most remote seats, well beyond the budget of most middle-class fans. That sort of gouging gets even the rich grumbling, and begs a question no one is apt to answer: How many $600 seats did they actually sell?

Logical guess: not many. Start by adding up the overwhelming number of celebrities who clogged sections closest to the stage.

Mick Jagger, his face weathered but his body mind-bogglingly lithe and energetic at 69, snidely acknowledged the fame and wealth of the crowd shortly into the show, after another prophetic reading of "The Last Time" but before declaring once again that "It's Only Rock 'n' Roll (But I Like It)."

"Good evening, Los Angeles – or is it really just Beverly Hills, Brentwood and parts of Santa Monica?" He forgot Malibu, not to mention NYC, London, Tokyo and anywhere else jet-setting die-hards flew in from.

Jack Nicholson was in attendance, naturally, making an unplanned grand entrance five minutes before the house lights dimmed and a how-awesome-are-the-Stones testimonial film screened. Johnny Depp, longtime friend of Keith Richards, could be spotted. I nearly mowed down CNN host Piers Morgan on my way out, and later saw his tweet that Sharon Stone stuck her tongue out at him.

That's just a sample – and don't forget to tack on their +1's or more, or those who came with stars who made cameos on stage, including Gwen Stefani, who added very little to "Wild Horses," and Keith Urban, who kicked in some fine Chuck Berry licks for "Respectable."

There weren't many takers for the remaining super-expensive seats. Unlike the $450 garden-box cost at the Hollywood Bowl in 2005, you got the sense that most top-end tickets went unclaimed until days, maybe even hours, before the gig.

Earlier in the week, spots at all higher price points ($250 and up) were still available; you could have snagged eight floor seats in a row if you had $5,000 just lying around. Soon enough, resale figures began to drop – and the upper deck nearly filled up. It's the damnedest thing: Usually the best seats are the ones nabbed first.

So it wasn't surprising when a thousand or more randomly assigned ducats at $85 a pop suddenly became available Thursday, in addition to another thousand sold at that level in mid-April. All buyers had to pick up tickets at the arena's box office, leading to a labyrinthine line that congested Chick Hearn Court, the street between Staples and the rest of L.A. Live, like a half-day wait for a new Disneyland ride.

Printouts foolishly labeled "GA Pit" wound up exchanged for whatever appeared in hurriedly handed-out envelopes at will-call windows. "The evacuation of Saigon in 1975 was more organized than this," Register sportswriter Steve Fryer quipped. He waited and waited – and got seats four rows from the last upstairs. Meanwhile, another friend who paid $85 found himself a section away from me – in the $600 seats.

Concert promoter AEG Live claims the extra allotment became available once the production was put in place and views previously thought to be obstructed were deemed clear. Hogwash. It's a standard-size stage, no grander than anything U2 or Lady Gaga or Metallica has ever built in an arena, with an enclosed tongue-shaped pit, enormous video backdrop and giant inflatable lips.

Apart from seats behind the stage, never intended to be used, there couldn't have been many obstructed views – certainly not 1,000.

Was this price-slashing tactic a face-saving measure – and proof that audiences have reached a limit on how much they will spend for a concert? Or was it cunning market manipulation, a means of ensuring that enough poor suckers would spend big on choice seats before dumping ones that didn't sell to guarantee a full house?

Doesn't really matter to the Stones, right? They get millions apiece regardless of the sales figures, although the Guardian speculates that should this continue, some renegotiating might be in order. (Meanwhile, Hyde Park's 65,000 tickets reportedly sold out in less than five minutes.)

What's unfortunate is that this is the unavoidable story about their tour-starter, rather than the performance itself, a strong one. It wasn't completely great – not start to finish, anyway, and sometimes not even within the same song. Note the still-menacing tale of the "Midnight Rambler," superbly abetted by classic (1969-74) Stones guitarist Mick Taylor, which raped and killed its way from shambling to razor-sharp to cut-dead.

Yet so much of the show was remarkable. There were unexpected choices, like the folksy Beggars Banquet nugget "Factory Girl," surfacing for the first time since '97, or the excitable live debut of "Emotional Rescue," which boogied better than "Miss You" later on and boasted a spot-on Jagger falsetto. Astoundingly, the set opened (with "Get Off of My Cloud") and closed (with "Satisfaction") sporting tighter playing and more enthusiasm from these revered relics than during the thick of their set, when the Stones often went slack.

The most obvious mouth-gaping moment – the implausible sight of them heartily rocking after all these years – can't be pinpointed. It happened at different times for everyone, though as with McCartney, Streisand and scarce few others, their mere entrance can (and did) electrify a packed arena. Was it worth $600? For those who paid that or more, of course it was. Value is in the eye of the buyer, and those who forked over a car payment probably required only an amazing view to rationalize the expenditure as once-in-a-lifetime.

They suffered few weaknesses in a 23-song set. "Wild Horses" felt too Hollywood to recapture its burnished glow, and the verses were too low for Stefani. "Start Me Up" hardly started up, sputtering sloppily instead. "Tumbling Dice" wasn't rolled so much as tossed with a shrug. Two new songs, the world-weary "Doom and Gloom" better than the generic "One More Shot," mainly allowed for a bathroom break.

Otherwise, highlights were plentiful. The Urban spotlight, for instance, really worked for me: "Respectable" should be peppier, sure, but that rave-up grinded along with mounting fever, until eventually Richards, his shock of white hair held back by a blue bandana, scorched the other Keith's solo with a blast of fuzz, leaving Urban and Jagger shouting the title at each other into one mic.

By 11-ish I was thinking nothing would outdo their rip through "Paint It Black" early in the set, with an elegiac finish that linked that furiously bleak piece to the apocalyptic "Gimme Shelter," uplifted yet again by the wailing pipes of Lisa Fischer.

But then the Stones really stunned with an encore that easily could have been by-the-numbers. It began with a poignant, authentic "You Can't Always Get What You Want," angelic intro and all, courtesy of Cal State Long Beach's Bob Cole Conservatory Chamber Choir. Jagger, momentarily ceasing his wiggling, savored every line, evoking the attitudes and tribulations of the times that inspired that anthem yet rendering the lyrics soberly, ruefully, at times conversationally.

It was riveting proof of how far from over his career as a live performer really is, and it came matched by muscular playing from Richards, spry Ronnie Wood and ever-sturdy minimalist anchor Charlie Watts on staples they've played thousands of times, "Jumping Jack Flash" and "(I Can't Get No) Satisfaction."

I go to Stones shows fully expecting to hear those tunes; they're necessary crowd-pleasers that nonetheless rarely impress. Friday night, they were astonishing signs that after more than two hours, the Stones were only getting warmed up. I predict the Anaheim dates will be even better, the Staples finisher flashier.

But let's also take some hot air out of this hyped balloon. Thoroughly enjoyable though their show was, it's ultimately no different than any other Stones presentation of the past quarter-century. Much the same lineup remains, with kudos to Bobby Keys on sax and Chuck Leavell on keys. And the structure of the set list is unchanged, with slots for rotating rarities (just not enough of them), a twofer spotlight for Keith about an hour in (we got nearly indecipherable versions of "Before They Make Me Run" and "Happy") and plenty of dynamite at the end, without any need for pyrotechnic wow.

If anything, despite the occasional oversized visuals, this is a more compact show, closer to the rip-this-joint feel of their heyday. They don't need holy-cow effects; they never did, not when they come armed with some of the greatest rock 'n' roll ever created.

"Old Gods Almost Dead," declared the title of Stephen Davis' essential biography of the band a decade ago. That may be truer than ever, and this could be the last time indeed. But as they all near or pass 70, the Stones seem more like grizzled old bluesmen: a tad creaky, sometimes unsure of tempo or cues, yet fully capable of producing hair-singeing fire and incredible blunt force when they lock into a groove.

Why should they hang it up when their wind-up toy of a singer remains fully functioning? They could do this until they're 80, you know. I'm not saying they will, or even that they should. But they could.

For a projected 2023 pit-ticket price of $2,500. Get in line now to pay half-price.

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